(no subject)
Written for the fic commentary meme. Would you like to help me procrastinate request a commentary? You may do so right here
So here we are in the commentary for Rush, requested by 2nd2ndalto . When I look at my body of work (lol), there are two categories of porn: porn that I rather like, and porn that I cringe over. I can never tell which category a fic is going to wind up in ahead of time. Obviously I wouldn't post stuff if I didn't like it at the time, but after I hit that "post" button, sometimes I just want to run away and hide under something, waving a tiny little flag that says, "Oh dear." However! This is not one of those times. I'm quite fond of this one.
Rose knows it won't always be like this, even as she's fully aware that it's never been like this before now. That funny, mad old life on the TARDIS has made her hyperaware of time, and its passing. If anything, the meaninglessness of time in her new life has made it all the more precious. She wants to bottle it, turn it back, and about a dozen other clichés. Without the senses to perceive it as the Doctor does, she's stuck just watching the slices reshuffle themselves and get dealt out, one after another, and round about again. Perhaps that is why he leaves his many human companions (she now knows) with such frequency. It's either that or they go mad.
One thing that has always mildly obsessed me about canon is how time is reckoned, from the perspective of the companion. From the perspective of Jackie, we sort of know how long -ish Rose is away from home, but from Rose's angle, how long is it?
But right now, this moment won't happen again, even if they tried to recreate the physical fact of it. It won't ever hold this same consuming rush of adrenaline, so that it feels like every nerve in her body is firing at once-even the ones in uninvolved places, like the soles of her feet and the backs of her knees. This not caring-literally not in any way caring about any other person, or event, or sensation, or possibility-this is a one-time-only deal.
Oh, to be young again. I shamelessly wrote this fic specifically to hit several of my own kinks: first-times (I LOVE FIRST TIMES AND WOULD WRITE NOTHING BUT THEM IF PEOPLE WOULDN'T CONSIDER ME WEIRD FOR DOING SO), awkwardness, and hand-jobs. Also, this sort of silent, furtive, spontaneous omg-I-am-making-out-with-my-guy-friend-we-must-never-speak-of-this business. I'm definitely mining my own priors here, and throughout this fic I made a real effort to try and channel the sensations and emotions involved with that scenario.
She knows that he knows this too, which is why he doesn't talk. The longer they can pretend this isn't happening, the longer they can hold on to the newness. They work together to keep the present from ever becoming past.
His eyes are closed. His eyes, and his mouth are both closed, set and unmoving. He doesn't stop her, his nostrils flare and she feels like she's intruding on a private moment. She closes her eyes as well, ventures out with a bare foot to touch the top of his, and despite where her hand now rests, this seems like the most brazen of actions. She could have pretended that perhaps her hand simply fell upon his lap in just such a way, and the rest was merely instinct. But a big toe, curling against and stroking the top of his foot; that's a choice. That is a choice that has been made and one more step towards a possible future of downcast-glances and blushing cheeks; the memory of a shared mistake.
I write Rose here as not wanting a permanent friends-with-benefits arrangement, and very definitely wanting emotional intimacy, and unsure of how to translate this purely sexual encounter into that. That's what her primary worry is here, beyond just freaking the Doctor out. After it becomes clear that he's not going to turn down a nice handjob between friends, that is not the end of her fears about what this all means. This is definitely a situation I have experience with, and not particularly good experience, either.
She ventures a peek. His lips are pursed and growing white. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and the sinews of his neck stick out. He looks like he is in pain, and it's exciting. She realises that she has forgotten to breathe.
She hadn't planned on this at all, and sitting together on a sofa in her mum's flat, watching some awful late night chat show was definitely not how she'd imagined the moment unfolding. All the lights in the place are out, her mother gone to bed claiming early appointments the next day, and the telly strobes red and blue and white lights across the low ceiling. Rose had much earlier thrown a ratty old afghan over them both, to keep the drafts curling through the window casements at bay.
People of Great Britain: DOUBLE GLAZING EXISTS.
It started as a hand on a knee. They'd been laughing at something a newsreader had said, something that they alone of all the people on the planet knew was false. She'd covered her mouth with her hand, trying to keep her guffaws down, then placed it on his thigh and squeezed, still giggling. He was giggling too, and smiling proudly at her. He looked so happy to have someone to share these things with, and that playful squeeze of a thigh was her thank you to him.
But she'd left her hand there, and the newsreader had moved on to less amusing stories and then the news was over entirely. The longer she kept it there the more difficult it was to move-it'd be like admitting she'd done something wrong. He didn't seem to mind, at any rate, and didn't flinch or shrink from her touch. When has he ever shrunk from anyone's touch?
She began to realise then that the voices on the TV had ceased to make any sense. They droned on in the background while in her head swirled nonverbal thoughts involving fear and desire and bravery.
Her thumb began to move in slow circles even as she was thinking, "No, no, don't do this, don't ruin it!" She expected him to stand up, suggest he go back to the TARDIS for the night, or offer to prepare a late-night cup of tea. Instead he just stared straight ahead, eyes glassy and moist in the fairy-light glow. She thought she heard-but could not be at all sure-a sigh escape his lips.
Rose Tyler, you are a fool, she thought. Would Rose think "fool" or something a bit more colourful?
Throwing it all away just for this, just for daring to touch him like this. The sheer terror was intoxicating, like when she walked at the edge of a tall building and wondered just for that split second, "What if I just jumped, right now?" I can't be the only person who has these thoughts.
He didn't move, and he didn't look at her.
The fabric of his trousers was thin and soft. Fic pet peeve: When Ten's suit is described as heavy or woolen. It's quite obviously thin cotton or it wouldn't hang the way it does.
She moved her hand up, just a centimetre, a micrometre, some paradoxical half-of-a-half-of-a-half. She heard him swallow, though she'd tilted her head so that his face was no longer in her field of vision. She couldn't bear it, the temptation to just outright stare was too great. She had to look away entirely.
A continuity announcer with a thick northern accent came on to announce the next programme, and Rose felt a surge of desire and nervous energy mixed. She had to exert effort in order to not tremble and shiver as if she'd been caught out in a cold rain. How could she explain it if he asked her what was wrong? I declare that there isn't enough nervous shivering in first-time fics. Consider the gauntlet thrown.
A stupid worry, considering her pinky finger was now firm against the crease where his thigh met his hip. The point of no return hadn't been clearly identified at any point, but she felt herself beyond it now. She stilled her hand and waited for a signal. Her next move, she knew, would be a whole new realm, and she couldn't convince herself to take the initiative without some sort of sign from him. It wouldn't be right. He wasn't human, and she couldn't take for granted that the logical progression of events that she was experienced with was something he knew anything about. On reflection, I'm not entirely sure Rose would have these particular pangs of conscience. She treats the Doctor as human for all intents and purposes, and he seems to enjoy that she does.
He still sat motionless, eyes forward, cast towards the television. Not a glance to her, as far as she could tell in the dim light, and not a word. She sat motionless, barely breathing, as if attempting to get close to a wild animal. She felt his pulses at his femoral arteries and tried to determine if they were faster or slower than normal; felt his body temperature for fluctuations and determined that she really wasn't equipped to measure these fine differences just by feel alone. Her palm began to sweat and she considered removing her hand, and started to leaf through a whole file of excuses that would allow this without also drawing attention to the fact that she'd had her hand so close to his groin for so long. So, the Doctor quite steadfastly not saying or doing anything here is a choice I made in order for the fic to work the way I wanted it to, but I'm not entirely sure how in-character that is.
Then she felt something. Just a tremor, a tensing and then relaxing of muscle, a minute movement of fabric over skin. She licked her lips, as quietly as she'd done everything else, and most definitely did not look at his face. She stared off out a nearby window and waited for confirmation, which came after a few seconds, in time with one of his pulses.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She didn't want to think too deeply about which elderly family member of hers used to say that as she slid her hand forward towards the source of these tiny movements. She expected him at any moment to jump up and flee the room, and to never come back for her or speak to her again. That terror was finally what spurred her to just go for it.
And now here they are. Her hand is under the blanket and in his lap. She feels him harden underneath her palm, slowly and in time with the beating of his hearts. She strokes the top of his foot with her toe, and presses her palm down, fingers splayed, not wanting yet to get the full measure of him. Just the feel of him coming alive under her is enough to make her own blood course downwards, making her centre throb and ache. His head tilts back, his eyes fall shut, and that's all the confirmation she needs. Two things I would like to read about in fic more: handjobs and frottage. Take note, fandom. Also, lack of clothing-removal. Hawt!
Bringing the back of her thumb-nail down on to fabric surrounding the zip of his trousers, she strokes gently down. He sucks air through tight lips and then holds it in, his stomach firm as a drum. She reverses the movement, strokes upwards, and he releases the breath. She already knows from undressing him on Christmas Day that he's put together like a human. Now she's also reasonably sure that he operates in the same way as well. She takes two fingers, as something of a test, and encircles him as best she can through his trousers. He stiffens-all of him, from toes to fingers, and most certainly this hard cock she now tightly holds in her hand.
She strokes down again, and a small choking sound is wrung from his throat. Her whole body thrums in sympathetic time, and it's only this lingering fear that too much, too fast will break the spell that keeps her movements small and confined to her wrist, her fingers, a few muscles of her arm. To anyone watching from outside, they'd just look like two people falling asleep in front of late night telly. Why do I find furtive sex so hot? I just do.
Oh, but the feel of him in her hand: The fabric of his trousers stretching and straining, the way that his cock remains bound up, pulsing and pressing back into her hand as she presses down, the knowledge that she has affected this change in something as fundamental as the shape of his body, it drives her to see what else she can make happen. UNF. And I find that in fic a lot of the time the dudes are hard right out of the box, but I actually find the process of, er, engorgement, to be pretty hot in and of itself. I did mention these commentaries might contain TMI, yes?
Her own throat is dry, her nipples hard and painful against her bra, and she squeezes the muscles of her thighs together to try and alleviate the pressure she feels, and to assuage the instinctual movements her hips want to make.
Strangely, her other hand remains where it was before, flat against a pillow on her other side, unable to aid its mate without her drastically changing position, and perhaps breaking the spell. She begins to explore the clasp of his trousers one-handed and wonders whether this might be the insurmountable challenge that does this whole endeavour in. Sliding her finger beneath his waistband, it is the first time she has touched the flesh of his stomach. She feels a smattering of hair, lean muscle that trembles slightly as her finger passes over, and she feels that he's probably not wearing underpants. Figures, she thinks to herself. What does a Time Lord need with pants?
She finds a clasp rather than a button and inwardly rejoices. This link right here will confirm the canonicity of how the Doctor's trousers do up.
With some nimble finger-work she may be able to get it undone, and neither of them will have to shatter this moment with any sort of talk or repositioning or acknowledgement that this is actually happening. She squeezes the clasp and the fabric around it, and she knows she's unfastened it more by the anticipatory gasp made by the Doctor than any physical evidence. She is careful with the zip. He's so hard, and his trousers are, quite frankly, so tight even at the best of times, she's afraid of pinching him. God bless those tight trousers. I have always wondered, though, about the issue of underpants. There's so rarely any VPL, but the trousers are so tight and, well, inquiring minds want to know.
She discovers, however, that this slow unzipping is driving him wild with want. She isn't touching his flesh, isn't stroking or pressing or goading-she's simply revealing, metal tooth by metal tooth. She purposefully slows down even further, but takes just one moment to finally feel the flesh of his length. Porny language will forever be my downfall. Shaft? Length? Cock? Prick? I don't even know. Thingie?
It's warmer than she'd expected, and soft. He's been sweating a little and she can feel the stickiness around the head as she swipes upwards with the pad of her thumb. For the first time he truly makes a bucking, thrusting move with his hips. It's instinct for him as well and she understands completely the need. She unzips him carefully as before, but quicker, until she's able to peel back either side of his trousers and reveal him underneath the blanket.
Her thumb immediately moves around the tip of his cock, spreads the moisture there downwards, and she grasps with her full fist. He's a nice handful, not intimidatingly large, but plenty to work with. This may be one of the only times, if not the only time I've mentioned size in fic. I actually find talk of specific sizes to be kind of... tacky? Still, though, I think Rose would at least spare a thought for noticing size. Really I'm just saying "average" here because anything else would seem overkill.
She feels briefly ashamed that she'd so quickly made this assessment, but forgets again as he audibly groans. It's a sound that goes straight into her chest and causes a surge of warmth to radiate downwards. She squeezes her legs together again and thinks about what it would be like if the shoe were on the other foot, as it were. His long fingers would find her quickly, even if she were still all zipped up in her jeans, as she is now. Someone write this, plz. Thx.
She squeezes him hard in response to something that he hasn't actually done.
He thrusts into her hand now, and she can tell he's trying to control how violently he presses up into her. On every up stroke she feels the scratchy fabric of the blanket, and on the the way down she brushes her forearm against his hand where he clutches the side of his own thigh. It's time to set a rhythm, she feels from the smaller movements of his hips. Her own hips involuntarily join in, up and back, pressing into the cushion of the sofa and then lifting ever so slightly as she feels the smooth skin of his cock slide up and over his erection. UNF again.
She grips him tightly, ripples her fingers along the shaft, feels the warm sweat dampening his trousers against her wrist as she firmly pulls down with her fist again. She ventures another look at his face and he's looking back at her now. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth is open and slack, and he does not move in to embrace her or touch her, to kiss her neck or feel her hair or anything of the sort. He's fully dressed except for his cock in her hand under a manky old afghan. And despite all of this, she is terrified to lean towards him and place her lips on his-as if that is just a bridge too far.I'm particularly pleased with this paragraph, and doesn't that just capture the absurdity of these sorts of situations?
She speeds up, suddenly not wanting to wait any longer to see how this will end. Her body is on fire, she knows that she's turned pink with a fierce blush, and that she's likely got a very stupid look on her face (to match his). The first movement he makes with his hands is not to plunge them down her jeans, but to toss away the blanket, exposing himself in all the ridiculousness of the situation. She doesn't stop, not for a second. The cool air of the room feels delicious on her sticky, sweating hand, and he seems to appreciate it as well. Her wrist begins to hurt, and the muscles of her forearm, and she considers going that unthinkable extra step and getting her mouth involved.
She licks her lips.
He brings his hand down over top of hers, and for a very long, terrifying second she thinks he is going to pull her away. But he doesn't. He keeps his hand around hers as she works and it occurs to her that he has most certainly done this before, without her. By himself. Alone. Of course he has; he's a bloke and it's what blokes do. She finds the thought unbearably erotic, Yeah, me too.
and it is perhaps this extra jolt of lust that gives her that special flick of the wrist or swipe of the thumb, and he's suddenly gone rigid, his hand removed from hers like he'd been burned, and he comes just as messily as any man. She continues to grip him, making ever slower and more shallow movements until she feels him begin to twitch and soften.
She releases him gently, sort of lays him aside sweetly, like a doll in a crib, Winner of the Most Awkward Metaphor in the Universe Award
and snatches a stray tea towel off the end table next to her. He takes it silently, the look on his face totally inscrutable, and dabs it here and there and tucks himself back into his trousers.
Rose doesn't know what to say. What does one say? She's not aware of any rules for these things, and she is pretty sure that goes double for Time Lords. He gives her an apologetic look and hands her back the tea towel.
"I'll just toss it in the washing," she says, standing awkwardly.
"Good idea," he says, loosening his tie slightly and undoing the top button of his shirt with one hand.
When she returns to the room from tossing the towel on top of a pile of dirty clothes Jackie's going to have to wash that thing. Ew.
, he's standing. The television has been turned off (no doubt through use of the sonic screwdriver, which always creates problems when her mum goes to turn it on the regular way later), and he's looking at his feet.
"Look, I-"
"I'll just-"
They both speak at once, and it is perhaps the most mortified Rose has ever felt in her life. "You first," she says, absolutely knowing that whatever he's going to say, it's going to be crushing.
"I thought I'd go back to the TARDIS," he says.
"Yeah. It's... kind of late."
"It is. And we've a big day planned for tomorrow." He finally looks up at her, and can see her slightly stunned look. "And you'll want to be up in time to say goodbye to your mum."
"Good thought," she says, and moves towards the front door to let him out.
"I'm full of good thoughts." He brushes past her as he puts his coat on. "Like making friends with you. That was the best thought I've had in a long time." Because I am a completely hopeless shipper, I did feel I had to add this line here which would make it clear that everything is going to be fine, and soon enough they will be happily shagging like bunnies, once they both get over the hump of "omg-I'm-making-out-with-my-friend." I felt that without it, the end would be too ambiguous and make the Doctor out to be quite cold and ungentlemanly.
She looks up at him just in time for him to lean forward and kiss her cheek. His lips linger for a split-second longer than she would have expected, but before she can think too deeply on it, he's out the door and gone.
Maybe it's better this way, she thinks. These first movements closer to one another, the first touches and words-there's no reason to take them quickly. Or even in the proper order, really. They'll get to all of them eventually. She now feels sure of that. They've got all the time in the world. There's no rush. Except there totally is. My personal canon for-really-real is that Ten and Rose did not have a physical relationship prior to Doomsday. However, where fic is concerned my big bulletproof narrative angst-kink is them starting a physical relationship riiiiight before Doomsday. This particular story isn't anywhere specific in series 2, though it's after School Reunion because of mentions of the Doctor's other companions. And of course there's time enough for the sequel, Push, to happen. But in my head, that happens and then, like, a week later it's Army of Ghosts. I LIKE ANGST, OKAY.
Next commentary on the docket: Forgetfulness for anon_aspasia .
So here we are in the commentary for Rush, requested by 2nd2ndalto . When I look at my body of work (lol), there are two categories of porn: porn that I rather like, and porn that I cringe over. I can never tell which category a fic is going to wind up in ahead of time. Obviously I wouldn't post stuff if I didn't like it at the time, but after I hit that "post" button, sometimes I just want to run away and hide under something, waving a tiny little flag that says, "Oh dear." However! This is not one of those times. I'm quite fond of this one.
Rose knows it won't always be like this, even as she's fully aware that it's never been like this before now. That funny, mad old life on the TARDIS has made her hyperaware of time, and its passing. If anything, the meaninglessness of time in her new life has made it all the more precious. She wants to bottle it, turn it back, and about a dozen other clichés. Without the senses to perceive it as the Doctor does, she's stuck just watching the slices reshuffle themselves and get dealt out, one after another, and round about again. Perhaps that is why he leaves his many human companions (she now knows) with such frequency. It's either that or they go mad.
One thing that has always mildly obsessed me about canon is how time is reckoned, from the perspective of the companion. From the perspective of Jackie, we sort of know how long -ish Rose is away from home, but from Rose's angle, how long is it?
But right now, this moment won't happen again, even if they tried to recreate the physical fact of it. It won't ever hold this same consuming rush of adrenaline, so that it feels like every nerve in her body is firing at once-even the ones in uninvolved places, like the soles of her feet and the backs of her knees. This not caring-literally not in any way caring about any other person, or event, or sensation, or possibility-this is a one-time-only deal.
Oh, to be young again. I shamelessly wrote this fic specifically to hit several of my own kinks: first-times (I LOVE FIRST TIMES AND WOULD WRITE NOTHING BUT THEM IF PEOPLE WOULDN'T CONSIDER ME WEIRD FOR DOING SO), awkwardness, and hand-jobs. Also, this sort of silent, furtive, spontaneous omg-I-am-making-out-with-my-guy-friend-we-must-never-speak-of-this business. I'm definitely mining my own priors here, and throughout this fic I made a real effort to try and channel the sensations and emotions involved with that scenario.
She knows that he knows this too, which is why he doesn't talk. The longer they can pretend this isn't happening, the longer they can hold on to the newness. They work together to keep the present from ever becoming past.
His eyes are closed. His eyes, and his mouth are both closed, set and unmoving. He doesn't stop her, his nostrils flare and she feels like she's intruding on a private moment. She closes her eyes as well, ventures out with a bare foot to touch the top of his, and despite where her hand now rests, this seems like the most brazen of actions. She could have pretended that perhaps her hand simply fell upon his lap in just such a way, and the rest was merely instinct. But a big toe, curling against and stroking the top of his foot; that's a choice. That is a choice that has been made and one more step towards a possible future of downcast-glances and blushing cheeks; the memory of a shared mistake.
I write Rose here as not wanting a permanent friends-with-benefits arrangement, and very definitely wanting emotional intimacy, and unsure of how to translate this purely sexual encounter into that. That's what her primary worry is here, beyond just freaking the Doctor out. After it becomes clear that he's not going to turn down a nice handjob between friends, that is not the end of her fears about what this all means. This is definitely a situation I have experience with, and not particularly good experience, either.
She ventures a peek. His lips are pursed and growing white. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and the sinews of his neck stick out. He looks like he is in pain, and it's exciting. She realises that she has forgotten to breathe.
She hadn't planned on this at all, and sitting together on a sofa in her mum's flat, watching some awful late night chat show was definitely not how she'd imagined the moment unfolding. All the lights in the place are out, her mother gone to bed claiming early appointments the next day, and the telly strobes red and blue and white lights across the low ceiling. Rose had much earlier thrown a ratty old afghan over them both, to keep the drafts curling through the window casements at bay.
People of Great Britain: DOUBLE GLAZING EXISTS.
It started as a hand on a knee. They'd been laughing at something a newsreader had said, something that they alone of all the people on the planet knew was false. She'd covered her mouth with her hand, trying to keep her guffaws down, then placed it on his thigh and squeezed, still giggling. He was giggling too, and smiling proudly at her. He looked so happy to have someone to share these things with, and that playful squeeze of a thigh was her thank you to him.
But she'd left her hand there, and the newsreader had moved on to less amusing stories and then the news was over entirely. The longer she kept it there the more difficult it was to move-it'd be like admitting she'd done something wrong. He didn't seem to mind, at any rate, and didn't flinch or shrink from her touch. When has he ever shrunk from anyone's touch?
She began to realise then that the voices on the TV had ceased to make any sense. They droned on in the background while in her head swirled nonverbal thoughts involving fear and desire and bravery.
Her thumb began to move in slow circles even as she was thinking, "No, no, don't do this, don't ruin it!" She expected him to stand up, suggest he go back to the TARDIS for the night, or offer to prepare a late-night cup of tea. Instead he just stared straight ahead, eyes glassy and moist in the fairy-light glow. She thought she heard-but could not be at all sure-a sigh escape his lips.
Rose Tyler, you are a fool, she thought. Would Rose think "fool" or something a bit more colourful?
Throwing it all away just for this, just for daring to touch him like this. The sheer terror was intoxicating, like when she walked at the edge of a tall building and wondered just for that split second, "What if I just jumped, right now?" I can't be the only person who has these thoughts.
He didn't move, and he didn't look at her.
The fabric of his trousers was thin and soft. Fic pet peeve: When Ten's suit is described as heavy or woolen. It's quite obviously thin cotton or it wouldn't hang the way it does.
She moved her hand up, just a centimetre, a micrometre, some paradoxical half-of-a-half-of-a-half. She heard him swallow, though she'd tilted her head so that his face was no longer in her field of vision. She couldn't bear it, the temptation to just outright stare was too great. She had to look away entirely.
A continuity announcer with a thick northern accent came on to announce the next programme, and Rose felt a surge of desire and nervous energy mixed. She had to exert effort in order to not tremble and shiver as if she'd been caught out in a cold rain. How could she explain it if he asked her what was wrong? I declare that there isn't enough nervous shivering in first-time fics. Consider the gauntlet thrown.
A stupid worry, considering her pinky finger was now firm against the crease where his thigh met his hip. The point of no return hadn't been clearly identified at any point, but she felt herself beyond it now. She stilled her hand and waited for a signal. Her next move, she knew, would be a whole new realm, and she couldn't convince herself to take the initiative without some sort of sign from him. It wouldn't be right. He wasn't human, and she couldn't take for granted that the logical progression of events that she was experienced with was something he knew anything about. On reflection, I'm not entirely sure Rose would have these particular pangs of conscience. She treats the Doctor as human for all intents and purposes, and he seems to enjoy that she does.
He still sat motionless, eyes forward, cast towards the television. Not a glance to her, as far as she could tell in the dim light, and not a word. She sat motionless, barely breathing, as if attempting to get close to a wild animal. She felt his pulses at his femoral arteries and tried to determine if they were faster or slower than normal; felt his body temperature for fluctuations and determined that she really wasn't equipped to measure these fine differences just by feel alone. Her palm began to sweat and she considered removing her hand, and started to leaf through a whole file of excuses that would allow this without also drawing attention to the fact that she'd had her hand so close to his groin for so long. So, the Doctor quite steadfastly not saying or doing anything here is a choice I made in order for the fic to work the way I wanted it to, but I'm not entirely sure how in-character that is.
Then she felt something. Just a tremor, a tensing and then relaxing of muscle, a minute movement of fabric over skin. She licked her lips, as quietly as she'd done everything else, and most definitely did not look at his face. She stared off out a nearby window and waited for confirmation, which came after a few seconds, in time with one of his pulses.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She didn't want to think too deeply about which elderly family member of hers used to say that as she slid her hand forward towards the source of these tiny movements. She expected him at any moment to jump up and flee the room, and to never come back for her or speak to her again. That terror was finally what spurred her to just go for it.
And now here they are. Her hand is under the blanket and in his lap. She feels him harden underneath her palm, slowly and in time with the beating of his hearts. She strokes the top of his foot with her toe, and presses her palm down, fingers splayed, not wanting yet to get the full measure of him. Just the feel of him coming alive under her is enough to make her own blood course downwards, making her centre throb and ache. His head tilts back, his eyes fall shut, and that's all the confirmation she needs. Two things I would like to read about in fic more: handjobs and frottage. Take note, fandom. Also, lack of clothing-removal. Hawt!
Bringing the back of her thumb-nail down on to fabric surrounding the zip of his trousers, she strokes gently down. He sucks air through tight lips and then holds it in, his stomach firm as a drum. She reverses the movement, strokes upwards, and he releases the breath. She already knows from undressing him on Christmas Day that he's put together like a human. Now she's also reasonably sure that he operates in the same way as well. She takes two fingers, as something of a test, and encircles him as best she can through his trousers. He stiffens-all of him, from toes to fingers, and most certainly this hard cock she now tightly holds in her hand.
She strokes down again, and a small choking sound is wrung from his throat. Her whole body thrums in sympathetic time, and it's only this lingering fear that too much, too fast will break the spell that keeps her movements small and confined to her wrist, her fingers, a few muscles of her arm. To anyone watching from outside, they'd just look like two people falling asleep in front of late night telly. Why do I find furtive sex so hot? I just do.
Oh, but the feel of him in her hand: The fabric of his trousers stretching and straining, the way that his cock remains bound up, pulsing and pressing back into her hand as she presses down, the knowledge that she has affected this change in something as fundamental as the shape of his body, it drives her to see what else she can make happen. UNF. And I find that in fic a lot of the time the dudes are hard right out of the box, but I actually find the process of, er, engorgement, to be pretty hot in and of itself. I did mention these commentaries might contain TMI, yes?
Her own throat is dry, her nipples hard and painful against her bra, and she squeezes the muscles of her thighs together to try and alleviate the pressure she feels, and to assuage the instinctual movements her hips want to make.
Strangely, her other hand remains where it was before, flat against a pillow on her other side, unable to aid its mate without her drastically changing position, and perhaps breaking the spell. She begins to explore the clasp of his trousers one-handed and wonders whether this might be the insurmountable challenge that does this whole endeavour in. Sliding her finger beneath his waistband, it is the first time she has touched the flesh of his stomach. She feels a smattering of hair, lean muscle that trembles slightly as her finger passes over, and she feels that he's probably not wearing underpants. Figures, she thinks to herself. What does a Time Lord need with pants?
She finds a clasp rather than a button and inwardly rejoices. This link right here will confirm the canonicity of how the Doctor's trousers do up.
With some nimble finger-work she may be able to get it undone, and neither of them will have to shatter this moment with any sort of talk or repositioning or acknowledgement that this is actually happening. She squeezes the clasp and the fabric around it, and she knows she's unfastened it more by the anticipatory gasp made by the Doctor than any physical evidence. She is careful with the zip. He's so hard, and his trousers are, quite frankly, so tight even at the best of times, she's afraid of pinching him. God bless those tight trousers. I have always wondered, though, about the issue of underpants. There's so rarely any VPL, but the trousers are so tight and, well, inquiring minds want to know.
She discovers, however, that this slow unzipping is driving him wild with want. She isn't touching his flesh, isn't stroking or pressing or goading-she's simply revealing, metal tooth by metal tooth. She purposefully slows down even further, but takes just one moment to finally feel the flesh of his length. Porny language will forever be my downfall. Shaft? Length? Cock? Prick? I don't even know. Thingie?
It's warmer than she'd expected, and soft. He's been sweating a little and she can feel the stickiness around the head as she swipes upwards with the pad of her thumb. For the first time he truly makes a bucking, thrusting move with his hips. It's instinct for him as well and she understands completely the need. She unzips him carefully as before, but quicker, until she's able to peel back either side of his trousers and reveal him underneath the blanket.
Her thumb immediately moves around the tip of his cock, spreads the moisture there downwards, and she grasps with her full fist. He's a nice handful, not intimidatingly large, but plenty to work with. This may be one of the only times, if not the only time I've mentioned size in fic. I actually find talk of specific sizes to be kind of... tacky? Still, though, I think Rose would at least spare a thought for noticing size. Really I'm just saying "average" here because anything else would seem overkill.
She feels briefly ashamed that she'd so quickly made this assessment, but forgets again as he audibly groans. It's a sound that goes straight into her chest and causes a surge of warmth to radiate downwards. She squeezes her legs together again and thinks about what it would be like if the shoe were on the other foot, as it were. His long fingers would find her quickly, even if she were still all zipped up in her jeans, as she is now. Someone write this, plz. Thx.
She squeezes him hard in response to something that he hasn't actually done.
He thrusts into her hand now, and she can tell he's trying to control how violently he presses up into her. On every up stroke she feels the scratchy fabric of the blanket, and on the the way down she brushes her forearm against his hand where he clutches the side of his own thigh. It's time to set a rhythm, she feels from the smaller movements of his hips. Her own hips involuntarily join in, up and back, pressing into the cushion of the sofa and then lifting ever so slightly as she feels the smooth skin of his cock slide up and over his erection. UNF again.
She grips him tightly, ripples her fingers along the shaft, feels the warm sweat dampening his trousers against her wrist as she firmly pulls down with her fist again. She ventures another look at his face and he's looking back at her now. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth is open and slack, and he does not move in to embrace her or touch her, to kiss her neck or feel her hair or anything of the sort. He's fully dressed except for his cock in her hand under a manky old afghan. And despite all of this, she is terrified to lean towards him and place her lips on his-as if that is just a bridge too far.I'm particularly pleased with this paragraph, and doesn't that just capture the absurdity of these sorts of situations?
She speeds up, suddenly not wanting to wait any longer to see how this will end. Her body is on fire, she knows that she's turned pink with a fierce blush, and that she's likely got a very stupid look on her face (to match his). The first movement he makes with his hands is not to plunge them down her jeans, but to toss away the blanket, exposing himself in all the ridiculousness of the situation. She doesn't stop, not for a second. The cool air of the room feels delicious on her sticky, sweating hand, and he seems to appreciate it as well. Her wrist begins to hurt, and the muscles of her forearm, and she considers going that unthinkable extra step and getting her mouth involved.
She licks her lips.
He brings his hand down over top of hers, and for a very long, terrifying second she thinks he is going to pull her away. But he doesn't. He keeps his hand around hers as she works and it occurs to her that he has most certainly done this before, without her. By himself. Alone. Of course he has; he's a bloke and it's what blokes do. She finds the thought unbearably erotic, Yeah, me too.
and it is perhaps this extra jolt of lust that gives her that special flick of the wrist or swipe of the thumb, and he's suddenly gone rigid, his hand removed from hers like he'd been burned, and he comes just as messily as any man. She continues to grip him, making ever slower and more shallow movements until she feels him begin to twitch and soften.
She releases him gently, sort of lays him aside sweetly, like a doll in a crib, Winner of the Most Awkward Metaphor in the Universe Award
and snatches a stray tea towel off the end table next to her. He takes it silently, the look on his face totally inscrutable, and dabs it here and there and tucks himself back into his trousers.
Rose doesn't know what to say. What does one say? She's not aware of any rules for these things, and she is pretty sure that goes double for Time Lords. He gives her an apologetic look and hands her back the tea towel.
"I'll just toss it in the washing," she says, standing awkwardly.
"Good idea," he says, loosening his tie slightly and undoing the top button of his shirt with one hand.
When she returns to the room from tossing the towel on top of a pile of dirty clothes Jackie's going to have to wash that thing. Ew.
, he's standing. The television has been turned off (no doubt through use of the sonic screwdriver, which always creates problems when her mum goes to turn it on the regular way later), and he's looking at his feet.
"Look, I-"
"I'll just-"
They both speak at once, and it is perhaps the most mortified Rose has ever felt in her life. "You first," she says, absolutely knowing that whatever he's going to say, it's going to be crushing.
"I thought I'd go back to the TARDIS," he says.
"Yeah. It's... kind of late."
"It is. And we've a big day planned for tomorrow." He finally looks up at her, and can see her slightly stunned look. "And you'll want to be up in time to say goodbye to your mum."
"Good thought," she says, and moves towards the front door to let him out.
"I'm full of good thoughts." He brushes past her as he puts his coat on. "Like making friends with you. That was the best thought I've had in a long time." Because I am a completely hopeless shipper, I did feel I had to add this line here which would make it clear that everything is going to be fine, and soon enough they will be happily shagging like bunnies, once they both get over the hump of "omg-I'm-making-out-with-my-friend." I felt that without it, the end would be too ambiguous and make the Doctor out to be quite cold and ungentlemanly.
She looks up at him just in time for him to lean forward and kiss her cheek. His lips linger for a split-second longer than she would have expected, but before she can think too deeply on it, he's out the door and gone.
Maybe it's better this way, she thinks. These first movements closer to one another, the first touches and words-there's no reason to take them quickly. Or even in the proper order, really. They'll get to all of them eventually. She now feels sure of that. They've got all the time in the world. There's no rush. Except there totally is. My personal canon for-really-real is that Ten and Rose did not have a physical relationship prior to Doomsday. However, where fic is concerned my big bulletproof narrative angst-kink is them starting a physical relationship riiiiight before Doomsday. This particular story isn't anywhere specific in series 2, though it's after School Reunion because of mentions of the Doctor's other companions. And of course there's time enough for the sequel, Push, to happen. But in my head, that happens and then, like, a week later it's Army of Ghosts. I LIKE ANGST, OKAY.
Next commentary on the docket: Forgetfulness for anon_aspasia .